


paris has some surprising treasures    Part One

by bluegerl



Category: Actor RPF, Sean Bean Viggo Mortensen
Genre: Cahier de Tresors., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2011-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegerl/pseuds/bluegerl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is a picture of what the book may have looked like...</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/bluegerl/pic/0002aasf/">
    <img/></a></p></blockquote>





	paris has some surprising treasures    Part One

  
Title; Le Cahier des tresors, or the Book of Treasures  
 Author [](http://bluegerl.livejournal.com/profile)[**bluegerl**](http://bluegerl.livejournal.com/)  
Archive [](http://rugbytackle.livejournal.com/profile)[**rugbytackle**](http://rugbytackle.livejournal.com/)  
Rating NC17 No warnings  
Category RPS Sean and Viggo  
Comment All mistakes are mine, This is a remake of the first input as half of the original story had been omitted by my crazy wordpad so I am afraid I cannot say it has been Beta'd by dear [](http://rubyelf.livejournal.com/profile)[**rubyelf**](http://rubyelf.livejournal.com/)

Disclaimer this is all made up, the author does not know these people and no offence is intended .  
Summary - Sean is in Paris and wants to take something back for Viggo

Le Cahier des Tresors or The Book of Treasures

 

 

PARIS

  
Sean was wandering along the north bank of the Seine escaping from the opulent plushness of the hotel in which he'd been accommodated. It was vast, enclosed in its enfolding silence, ankle-deep carpets and even doors that didn't shut - they just sighed closed, as if tired of such a boring job.

 

He wanted crispness, coldness, freshness, and here along the bank of the blue-grey busy river it was another world. Lining the railings were stalls; displays, with stands of anything from the latest vegetable slicers to ancient books, new and secondhand. There were folders of posters, of daguerrotypes and copperscreen prints of Paris in the old days. He fingered and held old wooden tools; spent some time admiring the handmade modern silver jewellery - but somehow there was nothing he _wanted_ to take back to someone who's taste in objects was out of the ordinary. Now perhaps if he could find a book on the Basque tongue or some....

He sneezed, and sneezed again. Paused, blew his nose, then turning to search for a bin to dispose of the dirty tissue - he saw it.  The Book. The Book!  Stuffing the tissue back into his pocket, he wiped his hand on his jeans, before he even dared to touch it.

It was old - well, certainly a good century and then some.  A brown cover - cardboard or stiff paper? Ersatz, but the writing on the cover intrigued him.  It 'spoke' to him.  It said 'Cahier des textes' in a beautiful, even, calligraphic hand. The ink was ... must have been the old powder sort, there was a hint of rust about it. Underneath the Title, he could see another sloping, almost slivered, slim, copperplate hand.

_'Eugene Theophilus Cartier  
aged Eleven Years  
"Seigneur du Monde."_

He smiled, _Eugene had ambition - Lord of the World eh, at eleven?_

He gently lifted the cover, loathe to be disappointed, to discover the 'Lord of the World' was just a boy practising his handwriting. But no!  A treasure trove, a castle of dreams .... The first page was illuminated, admittedly only in ink with no gold or lapis lazuli, but there were the swirls, the whirls, acanthus curves and even that saucy angel peering from the suspended bunch of grapes hanging from the centre of the ornate letter A.

 _A is for.._. Sean thought, and read on 'ancarnaum ancarnatis est rosarium benits ...'   This was not sense, was it a code? He thought back to his school latin,  ' _ancarnum' meant blood, - 'carne' meat? So the meat ...is the rose's blessing?_  He knew he hadn't got that correct but it needed a dictionary of some content.

Sean turned more pages.   Poetry - he recognised "Dorstich nought hee rose stele..." _aha, how did it go..._  he rummaged in his mind   _ah..._

_"All night by the rose I lay  
"In case some may stele my Rose away.  
"No-one came, and by the day  
"Twas I had stole the rose away!"_

He remembered his discussions in RADA when they had looked for more ways of saying "IS this a dagger I see..." or " Is this a DAGGER I see..." and "The gentle rain from heaven-...." impressing meaning for their own productions. His old adversary was a chap called Wallace - Wallace Allbright, a really posh fella, 'good school' and all that, but he had a really filthy mind.

Sean admitted even then he liked a bit of smut, and dirty jokes, but he never looked at this poem the way Wallace had. _Lying by the rose - yers - erm_  , Wallace was descriptive.  She was obviously a virgin as no-one else had/would 'stele her 'rose' - ' _and no-one came... oh, even that Wallace managed to double-entendre;  and so it went.  Good old Wallace and his mind, and yet here it was written in a most elegant delicate hand by an unaware unknowing child of eleven years...._

 

There was more. He must have been studying Early European Court Verse as there was Roncard, Spenser, Chaucer, Turold,   _Ah... Childe Roland to the Dark Towere came.._  amongst du Bellay, Sidney, Wyatt, Desportes, and many, many more, referenced by Vigny, and de LIsle. The poetry forms had been carefully noted;  ballads, rondels, lays, and the  more severe modes, sonnets and Odes, the rhymes the metre, verse....

It was a tome of treasure for Sean, the pages were crumpled, worn thin in places with use and love... but here, a page roughly torn out - grabbed - ripped in a fit of rage, loss or jealousy?   Why?  Sean's mind wondered that this simple-seeming child's textbook could contain such wild hurt, such passion in an eleven-year-old called Eugene Theophilus Cartier.

There was no indication of where Eugene Theophilus had been born or where his family originated, he was just 'Lord of the World'!  Sean had to have this book! This would keep his rose, his love, happy for days if not weeks. They could both sit together and chant ancient French poetry "Per que mos cors ni dors ni ri..." .. _My heart doth neither sleep nor laugh._... "Trop desacha ben del la fini.."  _So I should know my end...._

 

He remembered himself and Viggo, slightly inebriated one evening, orating and spouting Chaucer in the original dialect with Viggo's American accent, Sean remembered chuckling again.  Viggo's rendering of the Wife of Bath's Tale and her many short-lived husbands - his death scenes were dramatic! He chuckled aloud at the memory _of Viggo 'dying', clutching his belly and his 'complicated bits' (exposed of course) gurgling  "She's a-cuttim orfff " "Aye carstrighted beee.....!"_

The bookstall owner was French from his black plate of a beret, his smelly cigarette, the striped jersey, and even sabots.  But he haggled happily with Sean over a snort or two of his "Speciale" an eau de vie - Sean though it was more like 200% potato vodka. His throat took a good five minutes to thaw out and his haggling was reduced to wiping his eyes, smiling, holding out his glass, and raising four or five fingers - he _hoped meaning 'tens' but it probably meant 'hundreds'_ , then slicing his hand across his throat, saying _'the limit'._

 

"It didn't really matter " he mumbled to himself as he wandered, numb-footed towards a cafe and several strong black coffees. He clutched his parcel, in brown much-creased paper, decorated with defaced postage stamps from all over, re-cycled indeed. It was tied, incongruously prettily with pink shiny satin ribbons and even a finger-loop.

Back in the hotel, feeling stonger and utterly rejuvenated, he took a happy leave of the Publicity Team for his just promoted latest film, and fled to the Shuttle Train,  Home - home to Paddington and John Betjeman, to whom he would wave his 'Treasure'. He'd be Home _with a capital Haitch, cos that's where me 'eart is - with that nutter Viggo..._

 

Time dragged, but patience had its reward and Viggo was found in the kitchen, draped in Sean's clean frilly flowered apron, with every bowl, basin, spoon, skimmer, slicer, and chopping board scattered around him.  He'd even coiled a linen tea-towel into a Chef's Toque,  _a little saggy at the top..._  Sean smiled.

 

"Stir fry" Viggo announced. "Ginger 'n chicken 'n peppers stir fry".  Then dropping the spoon into a bowl of something custardy-looking, he bounded round the table and hurled himself at Sean, kissing, prodding, hugging, nibbling , loving , shoving Sean back against the wall and kissing him... _Kissing... HARD...._

He pulled back, having thoroughly bruised Sean's mouth, he put on his 'demure' face....

"Have you kept yourself for me?" He asked, idiotically fluttering his eyelashes.

Sean growled, raised his head high, conscious of his developing double chin, and sneered "Frankleh me Dahling Aye don't give a Damn..." and sniggered, both of them not caring, just happy they were together.

After a surprisingly tasty stir-fry, several good beers, they half lay on the sofa and Sean produced his "Treasure" presenting it on a large brown velvet cushion.  Kneeling on the floor he pronounced,

"Sire, I come from foreign lands, have crossed wild and perilous oceans, I have searched, and I have found a Treasure for your delight and pleasure..." running out of prose he climbed back beside Viggo, who was softly stroking the bright fuschia pink ribbons. Hooking his finger, Viggo sniggered,

"Hey - you didn't ponce around Paree like this did you?" Bending his wrist and gently mocking his gaygay friends.

"Of course I did - wore me best silk shirt, open to the waist, me black sexy trews and me bling necklace..." Sean laughed, knowing it was the _last_  thing he'd ever be doing!  Viggo breathed slowly as he pulled at the ribbon - he spent a long time, a long time looking the parcel, examining the brown creased paper, deciphering the black stampmarks, guessing at dates, placenames - until Sean became really ratty-tempered,

"Well, if all you wanted was rotten old wrapping paper with useless stamps on..."

Viggo smiled at him, carefully folded the paper, "Tread softly, because you can tread on my dreams...."

Then he looked down at the two strong-boned veined hands holding out as a blessing a brown paper-covered textbook on which was written:

"Le Cahier des Textes"  
Eugene Theophilus Cartier, aged eleven years  
'Lord of the World',

His eyes were moist, calm, loving, as he took in the face before him. There was hope, a giving, loving...  honesty and faith reflecting from the still shapely crinkle-edged green-golden eyes.

Viggo opened the covers - gasped.  He lifted his eyes, then gazed from the illuminated 'A' to Sean's shining eyes;  back to the 'A' and back to Sean's eyes...

"Oh, laddie, laddie, what have we here?"  


　  
TBC

Author bluegerl

**Author's Note:**

> This is a picture of what the book may have looked like...
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/bluegerl/pic/0002aasf/)


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